


Tough Guy

by BadWolf303



Series: When Larry Met Freddy [4]
Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 00:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11115654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadWolf303/pseuds/BadWolf303
Summary: He succumbs to it, allows Larry to be the tether that he's been trying so desperately to hold on to all this time, and turns in Larry's arms because he wants to push his face into Larry's chest and feel him solid and there and safe.





	Tough Guy

Freddy wakes up unable to fucking breathe, hair sweat-matted to his forehead, dripping down the back of his neck, his heart jackhammering in his chest and goddamn throat, and--

"Freddy?"

Hearing his name in Orange's apartment is like a fucking electric shock to his nervous system, and Freddy is up and out of the bed like a fucking bullet (like the fucking one fired into his brain in his goddamn dream) reaching for his gun and realizing that he's on the wrong side of his bed, that the gun is in the nightstand drawer on the other side, that he's fucking naked, that he's...

"Kid! Kid, calm down!"

He's not alone and he's not in danger, two things that together make no sense in his head, until his eyes start to adjust and he sees Larry covered in his sheets, with sleep mussed hair and a hell of a concerned face.

"Jesus fucking Christ, kid, you alright?"

He's fucking _alive_. He _should_ be all-fucking-right. But he chews his lip and glances nervously about the room, because there are a lot of fucking shadows, alright, and who knows what the fuck is hiding in them. His Silver Surfer poster can't save him, nothing can fucking save him, if he betrays Larry and gets him caught or killed or--

" _Freddy!_ "

Freddy's eyes snap to Larry--Larry who is naked and covered with Freddy's sheets--and Freddy remembers. Remembers that he confessed and lived and, _God_ , did he live.

"Oh fuck," Freddy says, running a shaking hand through his hair. "I need a fucking cigarette."

He kicks around the floor at their discarded clothes, finding his Hulk underwear that wouldn't have been his first fucking choice of sex wear, but he is who he fucking is, and now Larry knows all of who he is, and Jesus Christ, he can't shake the anxiety from his head. He covers himself up as he crosses over to the nightstand on Larry's side of his bed and grabs for the pack of cigarettes on top of it.

His hands are shaking ( _you're fucking useless, Freddy_ ) as he puts a cig in his mouth and reaches for his lighter, and, fuck, he can't get his hands to work, can't light the damn thing, and he's getting fucking angry, okay, because he's fucking useless, a fucking useless rat, a fucking useless rat cop who has nightmares and panic attacks and hasn't slept in goddamn weeks, and--

And Larry is wrapping his hands over Freddy's, gently taking the lighter from him. He reaches up and pulls the cigarette out of Freddy's mouth and sticks it in his own, keeping his eyes on Freddy's as he lights it and puffs once, twice, before pulling it out and exhaling and sticking it back between Freddy's lips.

"Thanks," Freddy mumbles.

"The fuck is going on?" Larry replies.

Freddy figures as far as questions go, it's a pretty fair one. "I don't sleep well."

Larry reaches out a hand, and Freddy stares at it, because he's supposed to be dead, but he's both alive and fucking _sated_ , okay, by the best fucking blow job he's ever had, and still hearing gunshots from his sleep, still betraying Larry in his dreams, and Larry is still here, in Freddy's fucking bed and Freddy's fucking sheets and holding out his hand. "Come here, tough guy. Get back in bed."

"Tough guy?"

"Yeah," Larry says, still holding out his hand. "That's you. Say it. Who's a tough guy?"

Freddy takes a long drag of his cigarette, raises an eyebrow at Larry (unconvincingly; he's still a shaking mess) and takes Larry's hand. He doesn't feel much like a tough guy, more like the weak little fag he's always been, and Larry's hand is strong and fucking rock solid around his small trembling sweaty one, so, really, who does Larry even think he's kidding?

"Come on, kid. Who's a tough guy?" Larry pulls at Freddy now that he's got a good grip, and Freddy falls forward onto the bed. "Who's a tough guy?"

And Freddy cracks, because this is so fucking stupid, but he's rolling over Larry, feeling the warmth of Larry's body as Freddy settles back into his side, Freddy's sheets smell like Larry instead of smelling like his cheap ass detergent, and Freddy starts to giggle. "I'm a tough guy," he says.

"Damn straight," Larry says, and Freddy keeps giggling, and those giggles seem to release something that was stuck tight in his chest, and the air starts to come easier.

He looks over at Larry, who is gazing down at him with this little smile on his face that makes Freddy blush. "What?"

Larry shakes his head, that smile not leaving. "Your giggles, kid. They kill me." He brings a hand up to stroke Freddy's bare stomach and chest, and Freddy's eyes flutter closed. The giggles stop as he enjoys the feel of Larry's strong hand--all rough and calloused and _man_ \--against his skin, as he continues to breathe in and out and takes deeper drags of his cigarette until there's nothing left to drag.

Larry takes it from Freddy's mouth and tosses it into the ashtray on his nightstand before rolling back over and meeting Freddy's gaze. "You okay?" he asks.

_Right now? Fucking peachy. Come morning, who the fuck knows?_

Freddy nods, and even as he nods he feels his face screw up and he has to ask, can't stop himself from asking, "Are _you_ okay?"

Larry just stares at him for a moment, and Freddy bites his lip, because Larry can't possibly have any idea what he means. Larry hasn't spent the last week in Freddy's nightmares--not really, anyway--and Freddy can't find the fucking words to tell him, _"I'm fucking terrified I'm going to get you caught or killed and I feel like I'm on a fucking rollercoaster I can't get off and I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry please just hold me."_

But Larry must see something in Freddy's eyes, because he reaches up to nudge Freddy's lip out from between his teeth and leans in to kiss him, more gently than Freddy even thought someone like Larry could, and pulls back to say, "We'll figure this shit out in the morning, okay?"

The way Freddy sees it--since Larry didn't just kill him--they've got two options. Larry can go to Joe, and Freddy can just get what's coming to him from there. Or Freddy can go to his superiors, and they'll pull him out, and then there won't even _be_ a Mr. Orange or a Freddy fucking Newandyke to fuck shit up anyway.

But Larry keeps stroking Freddy's stomach, and now he's pulling Freddy close, curling his body around Freddy's, and god damn, Freddy feels safe and that's fucking ridiculous, isn't it? But he does, and he feels like there's a third option just out of his grasp, an option he probably doesn't even fucking deserve, if only he could just...

"Shhh," Larry says into his ear. "Seriously, kid. I'm fucking tired, and you're giving me anxiety now."

Freddy giggles, and he feels Larry's rumble of laughter around his back and Larry's breath against his neck, and, God, despite everything Freddy's heart could fucking burst he loves this so much.

He succumbs to it, allows Larry to be the tether that he's been trying so desperately to hold on to all this time, and turns in Larry's arms because he wants to push his face into Larry's chest and feel him _solid_ and _there_ and _safe_.

Larry makes a grumbly, happy sound. Freddy fucking loves it.

He closes his eyes.

They'll figure it out tomorrow.


End file.
